Jack Westerfield, Great Khan
by Adam Gummow
Summary: The short stories of a Great Khan trying to survive while riding his beloved motorcycle.
1. Chapter 1

Jack had a bike that almost worked. Motorcycles that almost worked were common as dirt in the wasteland. Everybody had a stack of bikes that almost worked. But Jack's bike was special, because it really was 99% complete. Jack Westerfield was a Great Khan. He'd practically been born into the life. His uncle was a Khan, and when his mother died the Khans had taken him in. He'd grown up sparse and Spartan, hunting and fighting. He'd undergone initiation at 15, and swore it wasn't that bad while rubbing the scar on his jaw it had given him.

Jack, now 22, had been a guard at a lab in the middle of nowhere for a year. Others raided and traded, but Jack just liked to take it easy. On his off time he poked around, looking for caps and praying he wouldn't find radscorpions. Then one day he found it, the bike. It wasn't a fancy Lone Wanderer, it wasn't a prewar custom. In fact it was ugly and beat up. Someone had pulled the fenders off, the tank was dented, and it would have been something to pass over for anyone else. But Jack had seen a working bike in his youth. They said in New Vegas there were 30 or 40 that worked. They said in New Vegas someone had a running Corvega. They said a lot of things.

The bike had survived in a shack for 200 years nearly untouched. It wasn't all that rusty either. Jack knew it was his life mission to get it running. He saw himself riding to New Vegas. He saw himself riding back to camp to show off. He saw adventure.

Sweating, Jack pushed the bike two miles back to the lab, and was greeted with hoots of laughter. Bear, the head cook, looked at him sideways and offered him fixer. The laughter got worse. Jack didn't care. Nearly everything he did brought laughter. His general lack of talent for raiding had left him on guard duty while others sought glory. After a minute the laughter died down and Bear shambled over to the bike. He wasn't mechanically minded beyond what it took to cook jet, but he was the smartest individual present. "That actually seems pretty good" he said. Jack said nothing. "'bout 10 miles from here there's a junkyard. You could get some caps for it". Jack heard junk yard, and thought at once about parts. If he could get the parts, he could have a bike.

Jack drew graveyard guard, midnight till dawn. The camp was well hidden, in the east side of the Sierras south of new Reno. He wasn't worried about human threats. More likely it would be radscorpions. If a deathclaw came the camp would just have to be abandoned. Connie had also been assigned to duty. Connie was pretty but fierce. She was a legendary fighter, but had been shot during a delivery. Years younger than jack, she was the better Khan, which slightly galled Jack.

"Hear you found some junk, she snarked, opening a beer. Jack had never seen her get through a shift sober, but at least she didn't use jet like half the others at the camp. "I don't know what to do with it" Jack said sheepishly. Jack had long since given up acting cool for Connie. She saw through it, she wasn't interested, and she didn't care. "you gonna sell it?" She asked. "I want to fix it" he admitted. To his surprise, she didn't laugh. "I saw one work once, in Sparks" she said staring at the top of her beer. Jack was quiet. "Jack, you're a terrible Khan, but you aren't stupid. Maybe you'll get it fixed". Jack grunted and went to walk the fence.

The bike sat for a month, lying on it's side next to Jack's tent. But Jack thought about it every time he got ready to sleep. It gnawed at him. He didn't know enough about machines to know what was wrong, but he knew the frame was straight and the suspension had spring. Finally, he went to Bear. "Can I borrow the bramin?" "HELL NO!" bear yelled. His hand was blistered, he must have spilled something on it. Jack shifted his weight from foot to foot. He wasn't much of a raider, but he was a real Khan. "fuck you, I'm taking it", he said quietly. Bear didn't notice, looking for a stimpack. Bear was middle aged, skinny as hell, and used more jet than he made. While the camp's defacto leader, Jack wasn't intimidated by him. Jack went to the pen, tied a rope to the bike, and stood it upright. He'd have to balance it while guiding the bramin from behind. This was going to be a long ass trip.

Jack got to the junkyard mid afternoon. The bramin had seemed borderline useless at times, but he made it nearly 10 miles in less than half a day. There was an old woman in front of the barbwire fence. "NO KHANS! We don't want trouble!" Jack put his hands up, even though the woman wasn't armed. "Got a bike" he shouted. She looked hawkishly, then walked over. "200 caps" she said. Jack didn't know how to explain himself. "I…want to do something with it". The old woman didn't comprehend for a moment. "you want to fix it?" "yes…." "WHY?"

Jack didn't have an answer. She looked sharply, then softened when she realized he was serious. "I got three better bikes to work on, and they're no good without a fusion core. It's basically worthless". Jack felt stupid hauling it 10 miles for 200 caps. He paused then asked, "what else does it need?" The woman crouched down and took a closer look. "It's pretty complete" she admitted. "maybe I'll give you 400". "I want to fix it" he said firmly. The old woman laughed. "Look, can you get mentats?" "sure' Jack said, surprised. "they're an occupational hazard for someone who tinkers" She said defensively. "I'll trade parts and use of my tools for mentats. You do all the work. I've got holotapes, they'll show you what to do. It's no use without a fusion core though".

Jack settled into a routine. Graveyards with Connie, sleep as little as possible, hike to work on the bike, start over. In spite of what the woman had said she oversaw the work. Her name was Pearl and she had come from a vault. The work progressed well, if a bit slow. Sometimes Jack would get the shop and Pearl had worked on it herself, getting more done than he could. He acted a bit put out but he was secretly grateful. In 4 months Pearl declared the bike finished. "It just needs a power core" she said, a bit wistfully. She sighed. "Son, this is about as far as we're going to get. There isn't a fusion core within 50 miles of here." Jack had known this day was coming. Fusion cores were rare, and valuable. The NCR and Brotherhood of Steel used them for their power armor, and had slowly amassed most of them. It would take years of scavenging to find one.

Jack sat bitterly on guard duty that night. The bike was done, but it was worthless. Connie had passed out drunk. Jack starred into the fire. He made up his mind that he would simply give the bike to Pearl.

The next morning Jack set out to the junk yard. He was proud of how much he had accomplished with the bike. He had turned into a decent mechanic. Maybe he'd head to Red Rock Canyon and help build guns. He knew he'd been wasting his life at the lab. He walked into the main shed at the junk yard. Pearl wasn't there. He saw the bike. At the speedometer there was a small green light.

Pearl emerged around a corner, grinning softly. Jack was speechless. "Two years ago I found some power armor" she said. "I was trying to jury rig the fusion core to run a mister handy. It'd be nice to have a robot to help out around here, but I never got the damn thing to work. There should be enough juice the there to get you to New Vegas or wherever you want to go". Jack was a Great Khan; he was a tough son of a bitch. Khans didn't show much emotion. But Jack reached out and hugged the old woman.

It took him about three hours to figure out how to coast in a straight line, and then he tried a turn. By the end of the day He could ride the dirt road from the junk yard to what remained of the highway. Just before evening he thanked Pearl about 50 times in a row, stuttering, and then he set out for camp. The road was rough, and he was wobbly and had to keep putting his feet down, but in the end he rolled into camp with a satisfying roar from the engine.

Jack got off the bike. The other Khans gathered around to stare. Bear didn't say anything. Jack walked over to Connie's tent. She was waking up, bleary eyed. "What's that noise?" she asked. "Do you want to go somewhere?" Jack said. "Like on a walk or something?" she asked, confused. "No, I mean New Vegas, or Red Rock Canyon, or the East Coast or something? Do you want to get the hell out of here?" "What the hell are you talking about?" Jack waited for her to stand up, and then guided her by her shoulders out of the tent to the bike.

"You got it to run?" She asked. She walked over and ran a hand over the tank. "You really got it to run…"  
She turned to him and said almost coyly "where did you have in mind?" Jack turned to Bear. "We need some time off, were heading to Vegas for awhile".


	2. Chapter 2

It had been about six months since Jack Westerfeild had left for New Vegas. The Khans had a small camp on the outside of town. The NCR had declared that the town was closed to Khans, and anyone wearing colors would be arrested, but the Kings had graciously said Freeside liked the Khans' caps and generally fuck the NCR. Jack hadn't done much except play tourist, going to the dives in freeside. He and Connie had settled into a strange pseudo-relationship. He had spent the few caps he had and bought her a hat for basically no reason, she walked around town with him, they had scraped together enough money to eat at a real restaurant, and they spent several evenings getting drunk in freeside. Neither of them could pass a credit check to get to the strip.

Connie was itching to do something productive, and possibly a bit more exciting than gawking. She walked with a limp from her injury, and wouldn't be able to raid, but she had been talking with the camp leader, McCoy, about running deliveries. She had politely painted Jack as level headed and sturdy, without coming right out and saying he was useless in most practical senses. Jack earned his keep tinkering with the camps water distillation, but needed to find something better to do with his time.

McCoy called Jack into his tent. It was a large Yurt, much more comfortably furnished than the stolen NCR tents in the rest of the camp. McCoy was in his early 40's, fit, but missing his right index finger. He said it had been taken from him so he couldn't shoot, but he'd just switched shooting hands. He sat Jack down in a chair next to a small table and positioned himself on the other side. "What can you do with that machine of yours?" He asked. The novelty of a working motorcycle was much thinner in New Vegas; there were dozens of working vehicles throughout the city. "I can ride it?" Jack said weakly. He didn't know where the conversation was headed. A man in a decent suit walked in the tent. He turned to McCoy. "This the rider?' He asked. McCoy nodded. The man placed a small metal tube on the table. "Good Luck kid".

After a moment McCoy opened the tube and spread out a small piece of paper. It was simply marked with longitude and latitude. McCoy smiled. "Okay, here's what's up. This dude is Mr. Karr, and he knows where there's a vault. He wants to open it for trade. We're the muscle if they don't see it his way. He paid a small fortune for the location, and you're going to go check it out." McCoy pulled out a nearly wrecked pip boy and labored over it for a minute. He spread a map on the table and marked a spot on it. "This is where you are headed. Don't make contact, just go and see if there is a door there."

Jack wasn't sure what to say, but a ride out in the desert didn't sound too bad. He went to his tent and packed his saddle bags. He looked at the hunting carbine, and decided it wouldn't do. He walked over to the armorer, a man named Kyle, and handed him the gun. "I need something better" he said. Kyle stood up with a grunt and fished around his tent. He returned with a riot shotgun. "Loading for bear?" He asked. Jack smiled and walked to the bike. He looked for Connie but she was nowhere to be found. He was disappointed but he didn't know what to say to her anyways. She often left without telling him, he didn't know why he felt compelled to tell her goodbye. He climbed on the bike and looked at the map before heading out.

The ride was blisteringly hot. It was 60 miles into the desert, on a wrecked highway. Jack was happy to be out on the bike though. The bike had made him slightly useful, and a journey that would have taken days on foot took about two hours. After that, he had to turn into the open desert and the ride grew tougher. He stopped and checked the map, picking a trail through the sand. There may have been a dirt road here once, but there was nothing now. Up ahead was a small bluff, near where the spot on the map should have been. He got off about a quarter mile away and stared at the cliff with binoculars. Suddenly there was a blinding flash of plasma and he threw himself on the ground. A loudspeaker blared "Excuse me, but um… You're not welcome here. Please leave". Jack saw an assaultron moving toward him and jumped on the bike. He twisted the throttle too far and the bike threw him off, tipping over. He picked himself up and tried to right the bike. There was another flash of plasma and the seeking rays of a laser weapon. The assaulttron loomed over him and he put his hands up.

The loud speaker squawked again. "Oh um, we seem to have captured you. I don't believe we have captured anyone before. But, you are free to go. DON'T COME BACK." Jack looked at the bike and saw the tire was punctured. He shouted "I can't!" "No, no, we can't hear you. Talk to the assaulttron." Jack turned to the robot. "My bike is broken; I can't get out of here". There was a moment of silence, until the voice on the loud speaker spoke again "This is awkward, we seem to have taken you prisoner. Better get you inside". The assualtron herded him forward toward a shack on the side of the cliff. He stepped inside into a cavern. The shack was just a façade. In the back was a giant gear shaped door. It groaned and opened about 3 feet and the loud speaker blared deafeningly loud. "COME IN". Jack went through into the vault.

Inside he was greeted by a short young man with an impossibly large laser rifle. Both men were quiet, and the moment drew out until it became clear that neither knew what to say. The man regained his composure and gestured to an interior door. "The Overseer wants you". Jack walked down a flight of stairs and through a hallway until being ushered into an office. There was a man in a vault suit wearing a lab coat. "Very good mister Collins, you may go" the man said. "Wait, wait, wait, shouldn't you check me for weapons or something?" Jack asked. Collins looked perturbed and looked Jack over, saw there was a knife on his belt, and panicked to take it away. Jack just handed it to him and reached into his boot and took out another. The apparent overseer looked disapprovingly at Collins and then waved him off. "Hello, my name is Doctor Roberts, PHD. I apologize for Mr. Collins, I'm afraid he isn't too bright, he's only got a Bachelors degree you see." Jack was slightly disoriented, and only nodded. "I am the overseer of this Vault, and the head of the anthropology department. Welcome to vault 165. Who are you, if I may ask?"

"My name is Jack Westerfield" Jack offered. "What do you intend to do with me?" "Interview you, I suppose?" Roberts said. "As overseer I should most likely imprison you, but as an anthropologist I'm dying to hear of your culture". "Anthropologist?" Jack asked. "I study people and cultures" Roberts said, as if it pained him to explain something so simple. "We are all academics here I'm afraid. Vault 165 was entirely populated with the staff of the University Of Reno Nevada. We are their descendents and have tried to carry on their work." "What sort of work?" Jack asked. "Er, all sorts of work… we have a fine arts department, um, we've made um, advances in physics, we have a fine track team…" Roberts reached in his pocket and pulled out Mentats. He swallowed two and returned to the conversation. "The radiation levels have seemed normal for years, but our statistics department did an analysis and decided there was too high a risk factor to open the vault. Now what of you, and your people?"

Jack thought about bitter springs, and the Khans diminished state. He finally said "my people are outsiders". Roberts looked at him expectantly. Jack stayed mum. "And what sort of scientific advances are there? What does art look like?" Jack thought about the state of the world and started laughing. Roberts seemed genuinely confused. "Look, I need to go fix my bike. Some crazy guy is going to show up and try to sell you drugs. Looks like you've already got Mentats, stick with those. There are some folks in Vegas you'd like to talk to, the Followers. I'll tell them you're out here." Roberts blustered "I have taken you prisoner and I'm demanding that you tell me about the outside world!" Jack deadpanned "look, I'm part of a gang. A huge gang and we know you are here. I'm going to go back and tell them you aren't worth our time, but if you keep me here they will show up and burn this place to the ground to force you to open trade. So let me get on my bike and leave." Roberts looked terrified and pressed the intercom and called for Collins. "Show our guest to the door."

At the shack Jack eyed Collins intensely. The man looked nervous then fumbled in his pockets and returned Jacks knives. Jack stalked out to where his bike was. He squatted down and put his back to the bike to the frame and tipped it back up. He pulled a bottle of compressed air and rubber adhesive and sprayed it into the tire. It would hold until he got back. He straightened the pack and saw the riot shotgun. He smiled riley. He could have taken over the vault himself with it, it was so poorly protected.

Jack got back to camp after dark and walked over to McCoy's tent. McCoy saw his shadow and poked his head out. He opened the flap and Jack walked in. "The Vault is there but it's worthless. I met the locals, they aren't ready for the wasteland." McCoy raised an eyebrow. "This was supposed to be a scouting mission" he said. Jack looked back levelly "They were nuts man. We'd lose men and money doing this. Let Karr do it himself". McCoy spread his arms and acquiesced. "The deal seemed bad in the first place. Fuck Karr" he said

Jack went down to the fire and sat. Connie was there. She was wearing the hat he'd bought her. It looked ridiculous with her colors but it was cute with her face. "How was your day?" He asked. "Fucking fiends man, they're just animals. How about you?" "Wild goose chase" he said. They smiled. Jack grabbed her hand and she didn't pull back. There was an awkward moment, the Connie moved closer. Shitty day, but it would be a good evening.


	3. Chapter 3

Jack had a deep respect for his colors. The Khans had taken him in at age 8 and raised him. He'd suffered for years to join, and then finally been beat-in to earn the right to wear the patch. He wore his every moment, and never forgot that other Khans felt the same way. Now he was holding another Khans' colors.

Hernandez had been about Jacks age. He and Jack hadn't been close, but they had eaten together and gone on a delivery to Eastside once. Hernandez had nursed a horrible Psycho habit, but he pulled his weight. He'd been jumped in Freeside and he didn't make it. He'd been buried outside camp, but he'd asked that his colors be taken to his mother. He died without telling them where she would be.

Jack stood inside McCoy's tent. McCoy looked grim. He sighed. "Khans die. It's not easy though." "Any word on who did it?" Jack asked. "Some drunk" McCoy said "He's not breathing anymore either." Jack set his jaw. That was good. McCoy looked at the colors. "He was buddies with Mac. Mac said his Ma's in Kingston". Kingston Nevada was clear in the middle of the state. "Well Mr. Motorbike, the jobs yours" McCoy said. Jack set out to pack. It would be at least a 4 day long trip.

Jack loaded the bike and slung his shotgun across his back. Connie stood next to the bike. "It's a long trip" She said. "The 376 is pretty safe" he said. Connie looked like she was trying to act cool, but was secretly worried. Jack failed to appreciate the reversal of roles. "I'll be back" he said. Connie lingered. "You'll be safe?" "I'll try".

Jack set out. The 95 was a major trade root for the NCR. It had been repaired as well as it could with gravel, and Jack made good time. But when the road turned into the 6 and finally into the 376 it was rough. There was basically nothing out there, but the land hadn't been bombed out either because of that. The sand dunes were reclaiming the road, but most places Jack could cruise. As he rode his mind kept coming back to Hernandez. It bothered him that he hadn't made friends with him. Nobody in camp knew his first name. For all the brotherhood among Khans they had been strangers. He wondered it if he saw Hernandez the same way outsiders saw all the Khans, just a raider in a vest. He realized he didn't know Connie's middle name. Her last name was Smith, that was easy to remember, but he had no clue what her middle name was.

Jack made camp a couple times, then rode all day. He loved riding but his heart wasn't in it and he just wanted the trip over. An ancient Road sign announced Kingston several miles before he could see it, then he pulled off the highway on a ramp that had a huge hole on the left side. He rolled into town. It was a tiny place, like so many others. Nevada was basically empty, but here and there were tiny hamlets. Jack saw a storefront that had been a TV shop with the word general store spray painted over the window. Jack climbed off the bike and headed in. The store keep was a young woman. She put her hand under the counter. Jack moved his arms apart and said "No trouble lady". She moved her hand to the top of the counter, but stayed tense. "Honest" he smiled. "What's up?" she asked. "I'm looking for a woman named Hernandez". "Jose's mom?" "Maybe".

"Jose's a bad seed, but he's good to his mom" she said. "Was" said Jack quietly. "Oh" the girl said, looking down. "Mrs. Hernandez lives in the mobile home park. There's only a few folks out there, it should be easy to find her".

Jack road to the park and started knocking on doors. When Great Khans knock on doors folks don't answer, but at the third trailer an old man opened the door and directed him across the street. "Mrs. Hernandez?" He said. The door opened "Who are you?" the woman asked. "A friend of your son's" Jack answered. "I don't want any Great Khans around here" she said heatedly. "Jose is dead" Jack said. The woman drew her breath in sharply then whimpered. She walked inside and started crying, Jack followed her in. She cried for about 10 minutes while Jack stayed quiet.

The woman sniffed and rubbed her eyes. "Coffee. We need Coffee" she said. She moved to the kitchen and poured water into a pot. "What happened?" She asked. "Nothing good" he said, "he died like a Khan". Mrs. Hernandez sighed "Jose was trouble, got into drugs young. He left 5 years ago, said he'd joined the Khans. He never sent word, but every few months he'd send a box of caps Mojave Express. It made life easier."

Jack walked out and grabbed the colors, and brought them in. "These were his. It's hard work to earn them. He wanted you to have them" She grabbed the vest, looking at the trinkets Hernandez had sewn on the front. She looked at Jack "you should go" she said. Jack reached in his pocket and pulled out $5000 NCR. "The Camp raised this for you. It's not as good as caps, but it's what we could get. Take care."

Jack made it home two days later. He headed straight to his tent and opened a beer. He downed it thoughtfully and opened another. Connie poked her head in. "You find her?" she asked. Jack opened a beer for her and just said "Yup". She sat down next to him on his cot and was quiet. "What's your middle name?" He asked "Joy, what's yours?" "Douglas" he said.


End file.
